


Whither Thou Goest

by ShimmertoyourShine



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Assumptions, Canon Compliant, Confused Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, God they are just so dumb, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Stupidity, morosexuals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 03:01:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19759237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShimmertoyourShine/pseuds/ShimmertoyourShine
Summary: You know what they say about assuming things.





	Whither Thou Goest

The smoke from bonfire night had cleared, leaving in its wake the chill and damp of deep November. It seeped through the winding side streets and laneways of central London and found its way into nooks and crannies in the stonework, permeating everything. The tall man in the dark glasses turned his collar up and quickened his pace. He grimaced, shivering slightly as the chill breached his overcoat and made short work of his scarf, settling somewhere bone-deep and making itself comfortable.

It was that time of year when a certain apprehension hung in the air. After Guy Fawkes but too early for Christmas, and all of London seemed poised, ready for the descent into holiday madness that was nearly-but-not-quite upon it. Some of the more impatient businesses had jumped the gun, already decked out in baubles and tinsel, holiday jumpers put garishly on display in front windows and tinny carols piped over beleaguered sound systems, driving patrons and staff alike to a slow, inexorable madness.

Crowley smiled wanly. This had been one of his. The pre-holiday creep that got earlier and earlier each year was some of his finest work, he thought. Driving humanity to misery with the trappings of its own most joyous day was, in his opinion, the work of an artist – a stroke of malicious genius for which he ought to have been commended; would have been, if anyone Down There had ever taken the time to try and understand just what was so brilliant about it. They hadn’t, of course, and once again his genius had gone unappreciated.

But then, that was always the way of things. The Lower-Downs preferred the kind of overwrought evil that was completely obvious and impossible to miss. Corrupt aristocracies, bloody revolutions – that sort of thing. Subtlety was totally lost on them. Crowley sighed. It hardly mattered now, he supposed. Still, some sort of recognition would have been nice. Even if, as Aziraphale had calmly and infuriatingly pointed out, humanity had got the date so utterly wrong that it hardly mattered when they started celebrating anyway.

He squared his shoulders as he rounded a corner, frowning as his route took him past a Starbucks: the absolute apotheosis of holiday expediency. He had to hand it to the humans; they really had taken the concept and run with it. That capitalism was the work of neither side but rather a conception all their own was something that, on good days, delighted Crowley. But on days like today, when his mood was sour and his outlook glum, it needled at him like a sliver under his nail or a bit of kernel caught between his molars. On a different day he might have gone inside, placed an order for one of the achingly sweet holiday drinks the chain always came out with at this time of year and harangued the baristas with a half-dozen very specific substitutions. Baristas reminded Crowley of houseplants; it wasn’t good to let them get too complacent. True to form, he always left them shaking in his wake.

But he hadn’t time today. He had someplace to be. Most days that would have put a spring in his step, would have made the chill less biting. But not today. Tugging off his right glove he slipped his fingers – frozen anyway despite the inner lining of polar fleece, rendering the touchscreen-compatible fingertips useless – into his pocket and fished out his mobile to check the time. He frowned – only just gone half-four, and already the streetlamps were flickering on. This time of year was just so _bleak_ , he thought with a sigh. Normally bleakness suited him, made him feel at home in the deepening shadows and quiet, near-deserted streets. But not of late. Of late he had grown accustomed to warm fires and cozy, overstuffed armchairs. Hot toddies laced generously with whiskey and soft ginger biscuits dark with molasses (they complemented the whiskey, Aziraphale said. He was right).

“ _Going soft_ ,” he muttered to himself. He had three texts from Aziraphale, each peppered with the customary indecipherable string of seemingly unrelated emojis. Getting the angel to accept the necessity of a smartphone, and then to learn to text, had been an uphill battle. But Crowley was nothing if not persistent and now Aziraphale had rather taken to it. Particularly the emojis.

He stuffed the phone back into his pocket without reading the texts and continued on his way. He’d be home soon enough, he rationalized. _Home_ – therein lay the rub, didn’t it? It had been a full four utterly implausible months since he’d moved in with Aziraphale, packing up his things, his records and his plants and his very particular art collection[1], finding them new homes in amongst the books and the dust. Like table reservations and stopping for petrol, as far as Crowley was concerned rent was something that happened to other people. While his landlord had been quite taken aback to discover that he now had a penthouse in Mayfair on his hands that he _couldn’t remember being in the building_ , he was also a smart man and hadn’t looked a gift horse in the mouth.

And so it had gone. Their possessions had mingled, their routines had synchronized, and Crowley, already existing in a state of utter disbelief over the entire state of affairs, had found that he _liked_ having someplace to call home and someone to come home to. The flat had never been his home, not really. He’d spent most of his free time at the bookshop anyway, when he wasn’t sleeping. And sometimes when he was. Aziraphale had never complained when Crowley kipped on his overstuffed sofa after a few too many bottles of Pinot. Sometimes he’d even covered him with an afghan, and they’d both pretended that he hadn’t in the morning.

Now, with his huge canopied four-poster stuffed into Aziraphale’s tiny upstairs apartment, Crowley found he was finally able to combine his two favourite hobbies – sleeping and Aziraphale – into one convenient location. And if an almost-Armageddon was what it took for him to be able to blink his eyes open each morning to a mess of fluffy white curls, gently snoring[2], usually from beneath an open book, he would take it. He would take it all and thank Heaven and Hell and the Almighty and the Great Ineffable Plan and whomever else he needed to for delivering him, if not exactly from evil, then to someplace vaguely adjacent where there was an angel in his bed.

But that was all about to go tits-up now. He was sure of it. The rational part of his mind had tried to insist to him that it was all in his head, but as usual the anxious part had won out, filling his imagination with all kinds of increasingly dramatic and outlandish scenarios that began with something innocuous like spilling wine or burning toast or shelving a book in the wrong place, and ended with him and his possessions on the curb in the pouring rain at midnight while an irate angel slammed the door in his face. And then this morning he’d found the real-estate listings.

They had just been lying there, left haphazardly open beside a mug of stone-cold cocoa on Aziraphale’s cluttered desk. And what’s worse, some of the listings had been _circled_. In _red_. It had only confirmed what he already suspected at the bottom of his pessimistic little heart: Aziraphale would leave him. Of course he would. It was only a matter of time.

And it wasn’t just the listings, of course, though they were certainly the nail in the proverbial coffin. He had noticed a certain restlessness in his angel of late ( _his angel_ – better start trying to break that habit), a certain fidgetiness, a forgetfulness that went beyond just losing track of where he’d put his cocoa or his reading glasses. Truth be told, he’d been feeling it himself. This strange sense that things were not quite right, like an uncomfortable prickle beneath his skin; an expectation that very soon now it would all catch up with him and he would wake up, or round a corner and walk smack into Hastur or Beelzebub. And they would reveal that they’d caught on to his happiness, uncovered the little trick that he and Aziraphale had played and it simply would not do. And they would drag him back to Hell or to Heaven or else just dump a pitcher of holy water over his head right there in the middle of Soho and be done with it. Nothing this perfect and good could last for him, of course it couldn’t. He was so stupid for having allowed himself to believe, however briefly, that it might.

And now it seemed that, of the million nightmare scenarios he’d been cooking up for himself over the preceding weeks (months? When had this insidious doubt first crept up on him? Surely not that morning after they’d first… surely not then.), the one that would come to pass was the simplest and most heartbreaking of all: Aziraphale would sell the bookshop, pack himself up and leave London and all of the restaurants and galleries and parks and everything else that he loved in order to put as much distance between them as he could. It was only what he ought to have expected, after all.

Giving himself a shake, Crowley attempted to squash the thought. To compress it down into an insignificant thing that could be disposed of, or at least buried deep where it could not hurt him. All he was succeeding in doing, he knew, was to turn it into a diamond, hard and sharp in his gut. He breathed in sharply through his nose, the scent of fallen leaves and chilled air filling his lungs. It grounded him somewhat, reminding him that he was on a mission.

Rounding a corner he arrived at his destination: a small Scandinavian bakery tucked inauspiciously across from Golden Square. Biting his lip he pulled the door open and strode inside, a cluster of damp leaves following in his wake. He inhaled the rich scent of pastries and espresso, and felt his nerves begin to settle. He loved this café, with its warm wooden walls and soothing, slightly industrial atmosphere. Wanted to bring Aziraphale here soon.

The tips of his ears were freezing from outside and he felt them prickle and begin to thaw as he stood examining the pastry selection. It was nearing the end of the day and the pickings were understandably slim. Approaching the till he quietly ordered the three remaining cinnamon rolls that nestled at the bottom of a wicker basket on the counter, sticking slightly to the fabric napkin that lined it. He really only needed two, he supposed, but, Apocalypse or no he was still a demon and he liked to keep up appearances. Just in case. And anyway, he knew Aziraphale would make short work of the surplus one. He might finally be coming to his senses where Crowley was concerned, but he was still _Aziraphale_ , after all.

Crowley paid the barista without so much as scowling at her, taking the crinkled paper bag from her hands and heading for the door with a mumbled thanks. He really _was_ going soft, he thought. The remainder of the walk was uneventful. The freezing drizzle that had been falling noncommittally throughout the day finally made up its mind and came down on the side of properly raining, and by the time the warm yellow glow of the bookshop’s large, inviting windows came into view his hair was plastered soddenly to his forehead and his teeth were chattering. Gripping the now limp and slightly soggy paper bag tightly in his fist he strode up to the front doors of A.Z. Fell & Co. He was the & Co. now, he supposed. _For now_ , he told himself. _For now_.

The sign on the door was flipped to ‘closed’, but that was no surprise. Aziraphale often closed early when he felt he could get away with it, and this time of year was no exception. If anything he did it more in the lead-up to Christmas in an attempt to deter erstwhile holiday shoppers. Crowley smiled fondly to himself. No business sense whatsoever, his angel. Not that he’d ever needed it. And wouldn’t of course, if he planned on closing the shop and moving away. His smile faded as he fumbled for his keys. The doors opened before he could finish tugging them out of his pocket.

“Crowley? I thought that was you I saw coming up the street.” Aziraphale’s brows were furrowed as he took in the damp and shivering demon before him. “Come inside, you’re half soaked. You’ll catch your death out there, you silly thing. Why didn’t you get a bus for heaven’s sake?” The angel bustled him inside, tutting and fussing over him as he undid his soft grey scarf and helped him out of his coat.

“S’fine,” Crowley said, vaguely, thrusting the bag of cinnamon rolls into the angel’s hands. “Didn’t start properly raining until I was nearly here. Anyway, I brought pastries. From that Nordic place.”

“Yes but it’s been drizzling all day. And you’ve been gone for hours. Didn’t you see my texts?”

Crowley grimaced. “Sorry, must not’ve heard my phone,” he lied. Aziraphale peered at him skeptically but evidently chose to move on.

“Well, you’re here now. Come and sit down and I’ll bring you some tea. Goodness, your fingers are like ice!” He had taken Crowley by the hand and begun to lead him into the shop, towards the comfortable sofa with the middle-eastern blanket thrown across it. Crowley burrowed gratefully under it, tugging it up to his chin as the angel made his way to the small kitchenette at the back of the shop. He could hear the clinking of metal against china as Aziraphale stirred the tea, adding milk and honey. He had just begun to relax, the comforting heat of the bookshop spreading slowly into his limbs, when he happened to glance to the left at Aziraphale’s desk.

It was still there.

Crowley felt his stomach drop and his limbs tighten. With shaking, reluctant fingers he reached for the glossy real-estate magazine that was sitting open on the desk. He glanced down at it with trepidation and noted that several more listings had been circled since this morning, the red sharpie harsh and mocking. Hearing Aziraphale’s footsteps drawing closer, prefaced by the sound of clinking china, he hastily stuffed it between the cushions and attempted to affect his usual lazy nonchalance.

As he bent to put the tea tray down on the little coffee table between them the angel leaned forward and placed a soft kiss at the edge of Crowley’s mouth. “You did have me a bit worried, my dear,” he said gently, pressing a warm mug into the demon’s hands. Crowley took a sip and tasted whiskey along with the milk and honey and Assam.

“Sorry,” he said automatically. His voice felt stilted and far away. “Lost track of the time, I guess.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Is something the matter, Crowley?” he asked. “Only you seem a bit… put out.”

Crowley shrugged. “Just a long day,” he said, hoping rather foolishly that his taciturn answers would throw Aziraphale off the scent. They didn’t.

“And I suppose you just went off for a six-hour walk in the freezing cold rain and didn’t answer your phone on a lark, then?”

“’M a big boy, angel.” He was just being petulant now. He knew it.

“Please don’t be childish. You know that I worry about you since…” Aziraphale sat down heavily in the worn brocade armchair behind his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just tell me what’s wrong, please?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Aziraphale. Honestly.”

“Crowley.”

Crowley sighed. He put down his teacup and rummaged behind him, digging between the cushions and fishing out the catalogue he had stashed there. He flung it on the coffee table between them and eyed it warily, as though it might burst into flames. It very well might do, come to that.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah,” said Crowley.

“Found that, did you?”

“Wasn’t exactly hidden.”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t.”

“Care to tell me what this is all about then?”

The angel coloured slightly and glanced away. “I had rather hoped we could discuss this when I was a bit more… prepared,” he said haltingly. Crowley could tell he was choosing his words with care.

“No time like the present.” His heart felt leaden in his chest. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to take it all back. Maybe he really would set the blasted thing on fire, and they could pretend that this discussion had never happened and just go on with their life together, happy and in love and finally feeling comfortable with this strange and lovely thing that had bloomed between them at last after years and years and years and _years_ of wanting. But, ever the demon, Crowley couldn’t help tonguing a wound if it was there to be tongued. “May as well just get it over with.”

“Well,” Aziraphale was stammering and clasping his hands, his gaze darting all over the room, everywhere but Crowley’s face. At least he had the grace to look ashamed, Crowley thought dejectedly. “I… I suppose you’ve noticed that I’ve been a bit, well, a bit scattered. Of late.”

Crowley nodded glumly. This was all going just as he’d expected. He almost felt surprised, and he wondered why. The angel continued:

“I’ve been – well – I suppose things haven’t really felt right since the summer. Since, you know,” he waved his had vaguely by his head. “All the… unpleasantness.”

“Armageddon, you mean.”

“Yes, just so. And well, I thought perhaps a bit of a change of scenery might be in order. You know, fresh slate and all that.”

Crowley was nodding along, pretending very hard that everything was fine and his heart was in no way undergoing any kind of ultrasonic disintegration brought on by what Aziraphale was saying. He felt hot tears prickling in the corners of his eyes and burned them quickly away, hoping Aziraphale wouldn’t notice the little puffs of steam rising from behind his sunglasses. “Of course,” he heard himself saying. “Makes sense.”

“Oh, do you really think so?” Aziraphale was still wringing his hands and looking terribly anxious. He clearly hadn’t noticed anything, too preoccupied with what he was saying. “Only I did want to talk to you about it, Crowley, but I hadn’t quite decided how to broach the topic. I mean, it isn’t just a passing fancy. It would be quite a change.”

“Change, yes,” Crowley parroted dully.

“And you know, I’ve always rather fancied the South Downs. They say that the sea air does wonderful things for the constitution.”

“Constitution, sea air – sure.”

“Are you all right Crowley? I know this is a lot to take in. But, well, I have given it some thought and I really think it might be for the best. For the time being, anyway.”

Crowley blinked. His vision had gone a bit wonky. The room around him was spinning and had begun to distort, like burning celluloid in an overheating film projector. His stomach roiled threateningly, like the sea Aziraphale suddenly seemed so enthusiastic about. Clumsily he reached for his teacup, intending on bringing it to his lips and taking a bracing sip to steady himself. He realized too late that his hands were shaking when he fumbled it, sending a slosh of hot liquid slopping over his skin. He winced and glanced up at Aziraphale, who looked alarmed.

“My dear!” He was saying. Crowley cut him off.

“’Course, the South Downs. Sounds…” how did it sound? “Lovely! Sounds… lovely.” He could do this. He would let Aziraphale bow out gracefully. He wouldn’t make a scene. He could tend to his heart later, alone with a bottle of whiskey. And then perhaps go to sleep for several thousand years until the next Armageddon came and, with any luck, wiped him out completely.

“Oh, I’m glad you think so,” Aziraphale’s voice came to him as if through a fog. He sounded a long, long way away. Crowley supposed he would be, soon enough.

“Sure,” Crowley continued, soldiering bravely on. “I mean, makes sense. Change of scenery, that’s what you need. How long’ve you been in London, anyway? Long time.” He could feel the tears leaking out from the corners of his eyes, but he hadn’t the wherewithal to wipe them away this time. What did it matter? It would all be over soon enough. “And well, all that nasty Armageddon business, don’t blame you for wanting to pack up and get away. Leave all this behind you. Not as though you have anything keeping you here.” His voice cracked, then, and suddenly Crowley couldn’t hold the tears back anymore. Snatching off his sunglasses he buried his arm in the crook of his elbow and heaved out a great sob. How pathetic, he thought. Really, he was just making everything worse. Perhaps Aziraphale would leave him be, slip out of the room quietly and return once he’d collected himself so they could discuss the terms of their separation and make arrangements for him to come and collect his things.

That was not what happened.

“Crowley? Crowley! Oh my dear.” He felt the sofa dip beside him as the angel sat, pulling him into his arms and tugging his hands gently away from his face. “Dearest, whatever is the matter? Crowley, look at me.” Despite himself Crowley looked up into the angel’s face. It was a picture of concern. “Crowley, whatever have I said to upset you? We don’t have to move! I didn’t know you felt so strongly about London, but perhaps it is a bit too much. After all, you’ve only just moved in here. Another move so soon…”

And just like that, it began to dawn on Crowley that he had missed something rather big. Enormous, really. “Wait,” he said, his voice wavering, hardly aware of the words he was forming before they were coming out of his mouth. “We would move… together?”

Aziraphale stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. He opened and closed his mouth a few times like a particularly flummoxed codfish. “We… you… Crowley, of course we would move together! Did you think I was looking at cottages on the South Downs so I could go there on my own and leave you here?” He paused and looked down at the demon, who blinked back at him wretchedly. “Oh good lord. You did think that.”

And suddenly Crowley found himself being pulled gently down into the angel’s lap, his head pillowed softly on warm thighs, a hand in his hair smoothing slowly backward.

“Crowley, my darling,” Aziraphale was saying in a low voice. “It’s taken us six thousand years to get here. Whyever would you think I’d want to go anywhere without you?”

Crowley exhaled shakily. He was feeling rather stupid, but also raw and overwhelmed, the rush of emotion at realizing Aziraphale had no intention of leaving him and never had rendering him limp and pliant in his lap. “I may be a bit of a romantic old silly,” the angel continued, gently, “but I was rather counting on not ever having to again.”

Crowley sniffed at that, and snaked his arms around Aziraphale’s middle, squeezing tight. “M’sorry,” he mumbled. “Jussst a ssstupid old ssserpent, me.” He took a deep breath, breathing in the comforting scent of Aziraphale: tea and tweed and ancient paper, dusty books and binding glue. A hint of vanilla that he had come to think of as a sort of angelic essence. “Sssuppose,” he swallowed. “Suppose once you’ve been cast out of somewhere you ssstart expecting it to happen all over again when you aren’t looking.”

Aziraphale shifted, drawing him upward so he could look him in the face. “Oh Crowley,” he said, stroking his cheek. “Oh my love I’m so sorry. I hadn’t thought. It really was dreadful of me to leave that lying about – I should have just come to you straight away when I had the idea.”

“S’alright. I should’ve asked. Shouldn’t’ve just stalked off and left.” He paused. “Should’ve replied to your texts.”

“So you did see those.”

“Yeah.” Crowley flushed slightly with the admission. Aziraphale hummed, a little bit in irritation but mostly with affection. He shifted them again, bringing Crowley more fully into his lap, pressing his head gently down onto his shoulder. He resumed his soft stroking through the demon’s russet hair.

“It isn’t that I don’t like London anymore,” he said thoughtfully, as though he had gone over this in his mind many times and was finally now giving it voice. “And I do love this bookshop; you know that. But, well, after everything that happened, I find I’m always sort of… looking around corners expecting Gabriel or Michael or Uriel to pop up and drag me off again. And I worry so much that Hell might do the same to you. I couldn’t bear it, Crowley. Not after everything. Not now that we finally have each other. Properly, I mean. And so I think a change of scenery in a place that belongs to both of us might do us some good.”

Crowley considered this. He’d never really thought much about the South Downs. Rather chalky, he recalled. Loads of fossils. Something about a bloody great man carved into a meadow.[3] He liked London well enough, but mostly he liked being with Aziraphale. And the seaside did sound pleasant, now he thought about it.

“Suppose that wouldn’t be all bad,” he replied slowly. “Suppose I could maybe have a bit of a garden. Always wanted to try growing roses. They just don’t do well indoors, no matter how much you shout at them.”

Aziraphale brightened at this. “That’s exactly what I thought! I’ve circled a few places that mention gardens. And I was thinking of perhaps a proper kitchen. The little one here just isn’t adequate, not really. Can’t make more than a cup of tea and a bit of toast and I was rather hoping to finally learn to cook. Can’t be so difficult; humans have been doing it for thousands of years, after all. Not as many restaurants on the Downs as there are in London, you know. Though I’m told there are some rather good vegetarian ones in Brighton.”

Crowley sat up slightly and raised an eyebrow. “You have been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale blushed. “I just…” he paused, meeting the demon’s gaze. “I want something with _you_ , Crowley. Something that belongs to both of us, that doesn’t have so much…” he waved his hand, “… baggage hanging around. A place we’ve never had to be secretive in.”

Crowley leaned in and kissed him, very gently. Had his heart ever felt so full? He didn’t think it had. “I think about it too, you know,” he said quietly as he broke away. “About Upstairs and Downstairs coming back for us. I couldn’t stand it either.”

Aziraphale smiled, his eyes full of love. He encircled Crowley in his arms and kissed him again. “As if I would go anywhere at all without you,” he murmured fondly, shaking his head. “Really my darling. As if there’s anyplace I’d want to be if you weren’t there.”

They were quiet for a time, then, trading kisses, eventually finishing the tea and remembering the cinnamon rolls Crowley had procured. Aziraphale got crumbs everywhere and Crowley laughed, kissing them away. Eventually the real estate catalogue was brought forth again and they peered at it together. Aziraphale talked excitedly about housing markets and heritage properties, explaining that really, winter was no time to buy anything but that the market would pick up again come spring and what was the harm in just _getting acquainted_ with the sorts of things that might be available then. Crowley pointed out that this could all be done much more easily via the internet, on their smartphones, even, and Aziraphale huffed but wasn’t really angry at all.

“Not Sandalphon, then?” Crowley said some time later, when the cinnamon rolls were gone and so was the whiskey. The catalogue had been lost to the couch cushions again, and neither of them was feeling particularly inclined to look for it.

“Mmm?” Aziraphale looked at him, puzzled.

“I mean, it’s not him you picture popping up and dragging you away? He did do once, you know. I mean, I suppose it was me, technically. But still.”

“Oh saints preserve us, I really hope not Sandalphon.”

“Mm,” Crowley nodded, sagely. “He is a slimy little weasel, I’ll give you that.”

Aziraphale laughed and didn’t even try to correct him.

And later still, when they’d staggered up the stairs to the _really just impossibly tiny, honestly how hadn’t he noticed before_ flat and tucked themselves into the huge white bed that dominated almost the entirety of what Aziraphale had previously used as storage for extra books but was now making a valiant and losing effort at being a bedroom, Crowley looked over at Aziraphale and realized that no, his heart never had been this full before, and that now it was fairly bursting. And when the angel shifted onto his side and reached for him, humming softly and placing a sleepy kiss against his temple, he sighed contentedly and shut his eyes, and let himself be drawn in.

[1] Aziraphale’s eyebrows had nearly touched his hairline when the movers had delivered _that_ statue, but in the end his only comment had been to suggest that they position it over by the Wildes.

[2] Aziraphale swore he didn’t snore. Or sleep, for that matter. Crowley didn’t press the issue, except when he did.

[3] Crowley couldn’t quite recall whose that had been, but he was reasonably certain it was Heaven based solely on the fact that the one he knew for certain Hell _was_ responsible for had rather more worth mentioning in the trousers area.

**Author's Note:**

> You can think of this as a sort of sequel to A Charmed Hour and a Haunted Song; I wanted to write something from Crowley's perspective to complement the story from Aziraphale's.
> 
> Also, the café Crowley visits is a real place in Soho (http://nordicbakery.com/). I researched a few trying to find the one that he'd be the most likely to visit. I'm sure they would be just overjoyed to know they're featured in a 30-year-old lady's gay angel fanfiction.


End file.
